


all that it takes

by enbytim



Series: sincerely, me [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24379822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbytim/pseuds/enbytim
Summary: "Miss me?"or: mickey goes to see ian after he escapes from prisoncanon divergence of 7x10
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: sincerely, me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760374
Comments: 13
Kudos: 97





	all that it takes

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this is entirely the discord's fault for putting the idea of a oneshot of the miss me scene from mickey's pov in my head. and then, well, it's mine for imagining it as a continuation from ian's birthday oneshot. it's a combined effort <3
> 
> shoutout to the usual crowd: [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/pseuds/oforamuse), [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts), and [taylor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneached/pseuds/boneached) just for being your wonderful selves i love you.

Mickey knows it’s a bad idea. He does. All evidence to the contrary aside, Mickey isn’t actually an idiot.

It’s just that, well.

He never has been all that great at staying away from the Gallagher house, has he? On those rare occasions that he lets himself really think about it – and the only reason he’s thinking about it _now_ is because he’s sitting across the street and his brain refuses to shut the fuck up – he _knows_ why. This is the only place he’s ever felt truly at _home_. Of course, he keeps coming back here.

Which is why – he _knows_ , okay, he does, he’s fully fucking aware, _thank_ you – this is a really stupid idea. It’s dangerous. It’s _stupid_. The cops are gonna fucking _know_ this is the first place he’d run to. They already fucking _do_ , if the cruiser he’s watched drive past four times in the two hours they’ve been sitting here is anything to go by.

So, yeah.

He knows it’s dumb, and he knows that if, on the off chance they do get caught here, it’s not just gonna be his ass on the line. He _knows_ this could get Ian in all kinds of trouble. But it’s not like he has much of a _choice_ , here. He’s leaving, _they’re_ leaving, and the one fucking thing he’s asked for – the _one_ thing – is to see Ian before they do.

Mickey owes him that, at least. An explanation. In person. Not just some postcard eight months down the line from whatever Mexican shithole they end up in saying _‘Sorry I skipped town, wish you were here!’_. Mickey’s not that person. He won’t be. Not to _Ian_.

Besides, the explanation is only part of it. What he really wants, although it’s more hope than anything else, is for Ian to come with them. But thinking about _that_ for too long makes his heart pound in his chest and his palms sweat, so he doesn’t. He shuts it the fuck down. That’s a problem, a question, for Later Mickey to deal with. Maybe Later Mickey will have his shit together enough to ask. Probably not.

Not that any of this fucking matters right now because Ian still hasn’t shown up yet. He’s seen pretty much everyone else that lives in this goddamn house today, _including_ Frank, but Ian is nowhere to be fucking found. Mickey’s been staring at the Gallagher’s front door for so long his eyes are starting to blur, and his fingers are going a little numb from how hard he’s been drumming them against the steering wheel.

Come _on_ , Ian. Where the fuck _are_ you?

“What if he ain’t home?” Damon asks.

Either they’ve been sitting here long enough for Damon to learn how to read minds. Which would be a fucking _feat_ in itself. Or they’ve been here long enough for him to finally get bored enough to ask. Which is also kind of a feat. Whichever one it is, it shatters the mindless peace and quiet Mickey had managed to sink into. He can’t quite figure out if that’s a good thing or not.

Mickey rolls his head against the headrest, lumpy and misshapen as it is, so he can glare over at Damon. Fall is just starting to make itself known, the leaves on the trees lining the sidewalk slowly turning orange, but the sun is still super fucking bright as it pours in through the windshield. Mickey cups a hand over his eyes so he can squint at him.

“Huh?”

Damon shifts uncomfortably in his seat and wipes his palms over his thighs. “I mean… we been sitting here for fuckin’ _hours_ , man. How do we even know he’s home?”

“He’s home.” Mickey snaps. He has to be. He _has_ to. “He’ll show up.”

“Whatever, man.”

Damon crosses his arms over his chest and closes his eyes, leaning back against his seat with a soft sigh. Mickey huffs and shifts around, trying to get comfortable again. He’s hot and starting to sweat in places that make him _itch_ for a fucking shower. An actual shower. Not that communal shit where he has to keep an eye open at all times just in case one of Terry’s guys decides today’s the day to make a move. A shower with shitty water pressure and, like, one bottle of soap to share between six people.

Anyway, he’s hot, is the thing. It’s not even like it’s hot outside, but the van’s aircon is busted, and they’ve been sitting here for so long that it’s noticeable. It also _really_ doesn’t help that Damon can’t keep his mouth shut for longer than, like, three minutes at a time.

“What’s so important about this guy that we gotta see him before leavin’?” Damon asks, breaking the silence _again_.

Mickey doesn’t _want_ to go back to prison, especially not for actual murder. But he’d be lying if he said the idea wasn’t really fucking tempting right now.

Where does he even start with answering that question?

 _Everything_ is the obvious answer. Ian is _everything_ . Mickey’s entire fucking universe. The love of his life. The focus of every bullshit Hallmark Valentine’s day card. He means _too much_. He always has.

But Mickey’s not about to tell _Damon_ that. So, he shrugs. Thumbs at his nose. Sighs.

“I gotta see him. That’s all you need to know.”

“Yeah, but. _Why_?”

Mickey lets out a frustrated groan and leans forward to rest his forehead against his hands. They’re resting against the steering wheel, directly in the sun, and it just makes him feel even more disgusting. “Would you just… shut the fuck _up_ for a minute? Jesus.”

The fact that Damon actually listens to him is… weird. He isn’t expecting it – Damon usually argues with him about _everything_ – so the silence makes him glance up immediately. He huffs when he sees why.

It’s the same cop car as before. The one no doubt looking for _him_. Them. Whatever. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a couple seconds, and then lets it out slowly. Repeats.

Mickey’s always been jumpy around cops. Has always known he’s one wrong move from a bullet to the chest in the name of keeping the peace. He doesn’t remember there being a time when he didn’t know, as much as he knows _anything_ , that they can’t be trusted. It was the first in a long list of lessons learnt from growing up on the South Side, and he hadn’t even learnt it from Terry. Or maybe he did. Because, well… see, the thing is, is that Mickey’s learnt that lesson twice. And he’s never really been sure which one is worse.

He was five the first time Terry pressed a pistol into his hand and told him, in no uncertain terms, that one day he would kill one. That he would do it because he was a Milkovich, and that was the only reason he would ever fucking need. He was seven the first time he remembers Terry being released from prison. And that had been the beginning, the introductory fucking lecture, to the worst, most important lesson of his entire life: no matter what the cops got him for, Terry would always come back.

And ain’t that a fucking joke? 

Terry Milkovich getting out on bullshit excuses so many times that Mickey has _lost count_ , and Mickey gets eight fucking _years_ for something he didn’t even _do_. Between the two of them, Mickey knows who’s murdered someone. And it definitely ain’t _him_.

He sighs again, scrubbing a hand over his face as he forces himself to relax.

It doesn’t matter. _None_ of this is gonna matter soon.

And it’s as he’s lowering his hand that he spots Ian stepping through the Gallagher’s front door. Of course it is. His heart rate has _just_ calmed down, why _wouldn’t_ the universe give him something else to lose his cool over? At least this is something he fucking _wants_ , though.

The second Mickey sees him, he sits up ramrod straight. He’s not subtle. He knows he’s not. There’s no way Damon hasn’t noticed, but thankfully he keeps his fucking mouth _shut_. Or maybe he doesn’t. Mickey doesn’t actually know. Everything else around him has kinda faded into white noise and the only thing he can see is Ian.

Fuck, but he looks good. Which, seeing as this is _Ian_ , isn’t really that much of a shock now, is it? Ian always looks good. It’s like… a universal truth or some shit. Chocolate fudge jello is the best. Segal is the superior action star, fuck Ian and his wrong opinions. Ian always looks good. He’s clearly on his way to work, and Mickey will _never_ admit it out loud, not to _anyone_ , but Ian in his stupid fucking EMT uniform does things for him that he cannot begin to explain.

When Ian starts walking down the sidewalk towards them, he’s torn between leaning back and staying out of sight, and pitching forward so he can press his nose against the glass and just _look_. It’s been a week since they last saw each other. Since Ian last came to visit.

Sometimes it feels like they’re going to spend the rest of their fucking lives on opposite sides of the same window. Always looking in, always _aware_ , but never quite able to break through. Mickey’s tried. That shit’s bulletproof. But this? Being here right now? It might be a crack. And he only needs _one_ for it to break, to shatter apart.

It goes exactly the way they’d planned it - not that it was even much of a ‘plan’ to begin with. Couldn’t be, with the kinda guys Damon likes to hang out with. But, still. At least this guy doesn’t fuck it up.

Mickey watches him bump into Ian. Drop the phone. Sees the way Ian puffs himself up like he’s ready for a fight, and _fuck_ , but he has _missed him_.

He tips forwards when Ian scoops the phone off the ground. Of course, he does. How can he _not_ ? Catches himself on the door so doesn’t _quite_ headbutt the window. Takes a deep, shuddering breath that does absolutely fuck all to steady his nerves.

This is it.

This is what he’s spent the last three months waiting for. Planning for. Hoping against fucking _hope_ that he would end up exactly where he is right now.

He pulls the phone from his pocket with shaking fingers. Takes a deep breath as he lifts it to his ear. Ignores the way his heart is _pounding_ in his chest as he waits for the dial tone to kick in.

“Miss me?”

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah, that was a thing. i hope you liked it? idk it took me a week to start writing it and then once i started it just... happened. such is life, i guess. title once again taken from sincerely, me from the dear evan hansen soundtrack.
> 
> given it a bit of a tidy up since google docs decided to put a space between every goddamn comma and full stop in this <3
> 
> anyway, catch me on my socials: [tumblr](http://floristmick.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/floristmick)


End file.
